


Feathers of Onyx

by bluetoast



Series: Birds of a Feather [61]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Abuse, Deaf Dean Winchester, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he sat down to write a book about his life, Dean figured it couldn't be too hard. What he didn't plan on were the fears and psychological damage that he thought he'd banished from his life a long time ago. What makes it worse is when the one person he never wanted to know about it - Liesel - is the one who has to find the help he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers of Onyx

Dean wasn't exactly what had propelled him into the idea of writing a book. It wasn't something he exactly planned on doing. He wasn't even sure how he was going to begin such a story – and there was a lot to his story that the world didn't know. Perhaps, in the end, that was the reason he had to tell the story. He couldn't hide from his past forever – and while most people would have just gone to a therapist and have done with it; he knew he was different. It's one thing when you're an anybody – but to certain people, he was somebody. 

He was also asking himself where time had gone. It seemed like just yesterday he was sending Liesel off to fifth grade and now here she was, in eighth. She'd almost seemed stunned at the start of the school year when he told her that she wasn't going to have to have someone watch her after school anymore. Not that she'd ever been a problem for any of her three after-school keepers.

Dean let himself into the house and was greeted by the smell of the taco soup that had been cooking in the crock-pot all day. As he came into the kitchen, he saw that Liesel had already set out the bowls on the counter, along with a package of shredded cheese and a bag of Fritos. He smiled to himself and went to the sink and washed his hands. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he turned.

 _“Hi, Dad.”_ Liesel must have had art class today, because her hands were smudged with marker or paint. 

_“Hey. How was school today?”_ He went over to the fridge and took out the container of lemonade. _“You ready to eat dinner?”_

 _“School was fine. I was about ready to eat without you.”_ She replied, leaning against the counter. 

_“You go ahead and dish up. I'm just glad I've got a kid who will eat.”_ He got out a glass. 

A few minutes later, the two of them sat down at the table and after saying grace, Dean brought up the subject of school again. _“Anything interesting happen at school today? Are those boys still making gross-out sandwiches?”_

 _“Yes. As nasty as some of the things are, at least they're eating them.”_ She made a face. _“And they have the common courtesy not to bring sardines or any other canned fish into the melee.”_

 _“Melee?”_ He gave his daughter an amused look. _“Is that one of your vocabulary words?”_

 _“Yes. It's probably the easiest word to spell this week too.”_ She ate a few spoonfuls of soup before continuing. _“The subject for the state-wide oration contest was announced today. We're supposed to present it on an influential person from American History. Ms. Olberding advised us against using a president. We're supposed to have our person selected by the end of the week.”_

 _“Sounds interesting.”_ Dean took a drink from his glass. _“Do you have any ideas?”_

 _“Not yet. Although I've had plenty of people tell me I should do mine on Helen Keller.”_ She let out a heavy sigh, looking rather annoyed. _“I think people expect me to make my speech about her.”_

 _“I can see where they would get that.”_ He poked at his soup thoughtfully. “ _Do you want to do your speech about her?”_

 _“No.”_ Liesel put her spoon down, taking a breath. _“I've always done reports about her. I hate to say it, but I think I might have exhausted the subject.”_

He chuckled in response. _“Well, you were the best person in your class to do it.”_

*  
Dean stared at the blank sheet on his laptop screen, wondering where, exactly, to begin his story. It wasn't like he could call up John and talk to him about the time before his life became a nightmare. He didn't even want John to know what he was doing. He didn't even like thinking about that time. He adjusted how he was sitting and began to type.

_The first time I can remember Sir hitting me was on my fifth birthday. I thought it had been a mistake and he'd just drunk too much again. I can still remember the sting of his hand striking my face – and all I had done was remind him that it was my birthday. I told myself that it had been a mistake and that the next day, Sir would say he was sorry and we'd have pancakes for breakfast._

_There was never an apology that I can recall – and there were no pancakes either._

Dean unconsciously rubbed his left cheek, flinching when he felt the tiny scar right next to his ear. 

_Sir managed to keep his temper for several months - and then, on Little Brother's birthday – he hit me again. I don't remember why he did, only that his wedding ring broke the skin – and there was blood. Maybe it was that fact that kept things from getting worse. I only remember Sir, his face red with rage, his breath and clothes reeking of booze._

He sat back in his chair, hugging himself. Thinking and writing about that time was making him feel ill. Dean had tried to bury the feelings, the pain, the fear so deep that he'd never feel them again and here he was, willingly and purposefully dragging them back up to the surface. He hadn't seen John Winchester in nearly fifteen years. He hadn't seen Sam in six and he hadn't seen Adam in four. All of it still hurt and it wasn't like he was able to deal with it.

Dean stood up and began to pace the length of the dining room. It was hard enough having to change the details of hunting, of why the Winchester family didn't settle down – and all of it was just nerve wracking. He took a deep breath and sat down, resolving to write about something else for a while. There was no need to force himself to do all of this in one setting. He saved what he had written and opened a new document, writing about something much easier to deal with. 

Gymnastics.

*  
For the first time since he was twelve years old, Dean dreamed about John. It was horrifying – being so small, so helpless and at that man's mercy. It was cruel how his own mind could turn against him and make him a tiny eight year old boy, trapped in his own world of silence and then trapped in that hellish world. 

The blows to the face, the whippings from the belt – all of it done for a reason he still didn't know the cause of. John got mad about any little thing. If Sammy was wearing something dirty. Sammy was four. He was always into stuff. If the motel room was dirty – they were never clean to begin with. If something was completely gone – better to risk that than Sammy scrambling into John's lap saying he was hungry. 

Dean was always hungry. He didn't know what a full stomach was. Not even at Pastor Jim's. Pastor Jim hated that. 

There was no escape, he'd never escaped, he'd dreamed all of these years... 

He jerked awake, sitting up, breathing hard. He shook his head, trying to register what the hell just happened. As things came into focus, he realized, to his horror, that a very white faced Liesel was standing at the foot of his bed. He fumbled for the light and turned to her. “What's wrong?”

“You were screaming. It woke me up.” She swallowed. “Are you okay?”

Well, this was just pathetic. The person who had come to save him from his nightmares was his twelve year old daughter. “I'm fine.”

She made a face. “No, you're not.” She turned and went into the bathroom. He was stunned at her remark. Just the look she had given him – it was so like her mother that it was scary. Liesel returned a moment later with a cup of water and brought it to him.

Rather than say he didn't want it, he took the cup. _“Thank you.”_ He took a few swallows of the water – and it did help. “I'm sorry I woke you up.”

“It's okay.” She shifted on her feet. “Now if the situation was reversed, this would be the point where you'd want me to talk about it.”

Dean almost spat out a mouthful of water. Instead, he managed to choke it down and cough. “I have a feeling there's a 'but' on the end of that sentence.”

Liesel rubbed her nose. “Yes. I'm going to guess that whatever it is, it's something I don't need to know about, or something you really don't want to talk about with me at this time of the night.” 

He took another drink of water. “I'll be fine.” He sighed. “You go on back to bed.”

“Okay.” She turned and left. 

Dean watched her go, feeling rather ashamed of himself. Neither he nor his parents had ever told Liesel much about the Winchesters – all she knew is that her uncles stopped coming around and then they stopped talking to her and him. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of that – all in all, it was sort of shitty. He'd run into second cousin of his at Gallaudet University – Shannon Winchester – (her granddad was John's father's brother) – and there was that connection. But John Winchester seemed to have cut all those relations out of his life. One of these days he was going to sit down and try and find some relations on his mother's side, the Campbells. 

Maybe if John hadn't been such a stubborn asshole he could have found help from family too.

 _And I can be just as stubborn._

He let out a breath, drank the rest of his water and turned out the light. He couldn't fix anything at this time of night. He lay back down and grabbed the pillow from the other side of the bed, hugging it tightly. 

It was one of those times when he found himself wishing Ignacia was still here, sleeping beside him. No kid should have to go find out what's wrong with a parent in the middle of the night. Liesel already went through it once with her mother. 

*  
Dean was glad he didn't have any more nightmares. Or if he did, he didn't remember them. Liesel didn't say anything to him in the morning, so he figured she had put the incident out of her mind. He poured himself a second cup of coffee and came over to the kitchen table, where Liesel was focused more on her bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats than him. “You able to get back to sleep last night?”

She nodded, her eyes still on her breakfast. 

He took a grapefruit from the bowl on the table and began to peel it. He glanced up when he sensed her moving and watched as she got up and went to put her bowl in the dishwasher. “Cats fed?”

Liesel nodded. “Cats fed, lunches assembled, I just need to brush my teeth and I'll be ready to go.”

“All right.” He turned his focus to his fruit as she left the room. He wasn't going to call her out on the fact that he knew she had been lying about being able to get back to sleep. He felt guilty about the whole incident as it was already, so he'd let it go. 

*

He didn't work on the book every night. Dean had plenty of other things to do and his shifts were constantly changing these days. While he had no problem leaving Liesel home alone after school for a few hours, he wouldn't let her be alone overnight alone – even if they did have an alarm system. He also didn't know if she was aware just how many times he'd woken up from nightmares in the past few weeks. It hadn't affected his sleep too much, he was always able to fall right back to sleep. However, some of the dreams were so terrifying. The ones of John hurting him he could handle – but the ones where John hurt Liesel or his parents – those were the ones that made him get up and check to see if his daughter was still safe in her bed. 

Dean had bouts where he considered scrapping this whole book idea. Usually that thought was followed by the fact that he just had to get through five little years and then he could be done with it. At best the whole thing would take up two chapters in the book. 

He could get through two chapters. 

*  
When he looked back, Dean might have laughed at the irony of the date. It was September 19, 2016 – his and Ignacia's thirteenth wedding anniversary – to find his dad's car in the driveway. Liesel didn't have softball practice, so there was no reason for him to be there. When he came into the kitchen, he got a second shock – _both_ of his parents were sitting at the kitchen table with his daughter – and he could tell right away that his mom and Liesel had been crying. Dad didn't look angry – he didn't look sad. He looked – disappointed. 

_“What's this?”_ He went over to the sink, washed his hands and came towards the table. _“Don't tell me...”_

 _“Sit down.”_ Michael Coulter pointed to the fourth chair, a look on his face Dean hadn't seen since the time he borrowed the car without asking when he was seventeen.

Suddenly feeling very much like that seventeen year old again, Dean slid into the chair and saw the moment he did, Liesel looked down at the table. This - was not good. _“What's going on?”_

 _“What's going on, Dean Michael – is that you need help.”_ His mother had the look she used to give him when he was ten. _“The help we should have gotten you when you were Liesel's age.”_

 _“I don't need that kind of help.”_ Dean scoffed. Were his parents actually going to suggest he see a therapist? He'd talked to the school counselors, that had been good enough. 

_“I think that you do.”_ Michael shook his head. _“You were always good at burying your pain.”_

 _“Dad...”_ He caught the slight movement across from him and he turned to Liesel. “What did you tell them?”

Liesel raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You told me that I was supposed to come and tell you if something didn't sound right in the house.” She gulped. “You didn't tell me what I was supposed to do if it was _you_ who sounded broken.”

“I'm not broken!” He knew he must have shouted by the way she flinched. 

_“Don't you yell at her, Dean!”_ His mother set a hand on his arm. “ _Liesel is worried about you and so are your father and I.”_

 _“I don't need help!”_ He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. This was perfectly ridiculous. A few nightmares weren't anything to get worked up about. 

_“No one is saying you're broken, Dean. If you don't want to get help, that's your own business. We're just strongly encouraging that you do.”_ His father shook his head and turned to Liesel. _“Go upstairs.”_

It must have been the two words she was waiting for, because his daughter didn't even hesitate to get up from her seat and push the chair in. She went around her grandmother and as she passed behind his chair, Dean resisted the urge to grab her wrist. He was angry – but he wasn't about to unleash the fury he felt. That would make him no better than John. A part of him knew that Liesel had done this because she was worried – or scared. At least he was only having to deal with his parents – and not Castiel and Gabriel as well. That would just be a full-on reason to freak out. When Liesel was out of the kitchen, he leaned forward, ready to just get this over with. 

_“Look, whatever Liesel told you, she's just overreacting – she's a kid.”_

_“A kid who's heard you crying in your sleep.”_ Michael's face was stony. _“She told us it was different from when Ignacia died.”_

Dean blinked. Liesel hadn't woken up again, he'd checked on her – and then realized she could have faked sleep if she heard him coming down the hallway. He nearly laughed at that fact. _“It's not a constant thing. It's probably just the book, that's all.”_

 _“I don't think it is.”_ Elisa's mouth was drawn into a thin line. “ _If you're not going to get help for yourself, then do it for her.”_ Her eyes glittered for a moment before she continued. “ _And you're right – Liesel is a kid. And a kid shouldn't have to be the parent.”_

Dean swallowed hard. Maybe his parents did have a point.

*

Dean woke up, drenched in sweat. This nightmare had been by far the worst one yet. Instead of himself being helpless in that Emergency Room, it'd been Liesel. He'd been trying to shout for someone to help her, but no one listened – people walked past him as if he was invisible. Maybe he had been – even Liesel hadn't looked at him when he waved his hand in front of her face. 

He got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. After splashing cold water on his face and taking a drink of water, he took a breath and went slowly down the hall, wondering what it was that tipped Liesel off to his arrival. Perhaps one of the boards creaked, or something. 

The door of her room was partially open, like it always was, to let the cats in and out of her room. Last he'd checked, both Leroux and Noroc were sleeping on the couch downstairs. In the semi darkness, he watched as she turned over in her bed, showing him her back. He had the urge to go into the room but stopped. She knew he was there and that he knew she was awake. His voice failed him and he glanced at the space next to the window and he could swear that David Tennant, Matt Smith and Peter Capaldi were all glaring at him from the _Dr Who_ poster on her wall. 

Swallowing, Dean retreated back up the hallway. It was one thing if he was having nightmares – but the last thing he needed to do was make his problems Liesel's problems. And as he got back into bed, he realized, to his horror, that he already had.

*  
There was a vase full of bright red daisies on the desk. That was weird in Dean's mind. Maybe it was the doctor's birthday, or something. He was glad he didn't have to sit at the chair in front of the desk. He was also glad he'd found someone to see who knew ASL. He rested his hands in his lap, trying to figure out what the man was scribbling on the clipboard. It was like being back in school. He let out a breath and the man looked up.

“This is your session, Dean. I'm just here to listen at this point.” The psychologist had the barest hint of a smile on his face.

 _“What am I supposed to talk about?”_ Dean gave the man a look. _“The weather? What I had for lunch?”_

 _“If you want.”_ He shifted in his chair. _“What did you have for lunch?”_

 _"A roast beef sandwich, miniature bell peppers, an apple and soup.”_ He let out a breath. _“It was good.”_

 _“What kind of soup?”_

Dean had to wonder if the man was humoring him, but he continued. _“Miso with noodles and tofu. I didn't pick it, my daughter did.”_

 _“Did she have the same lunch you did?”_ The man scribbled something down and Dean decided he'd just try and relax a little more.

 _“We usually have the same lunch. We tend to prepare a week's worth of lunches on Sunday so we don't have to worry about it during the week.”_ He risked a smile. “ _Saves a lot of time in the morning.”_

 _“I should try that.”_ He smiled faintly. _“I'm guessing that next week, it's your turn to pick the soup.”_

Dean nodded and then felt something just give way inside of him. _“It's about order for us.”_

 _“Order?”_ The man shifted again, his smile vanishing. _“Could you elaborate on that?”_

He sighed before beginning. “ _Order is what helps us get through the days and weeks – it's just been that way since her mother died and now – now order has become routine.”_

 _“Is order important to you?”_ That had to be one of the dumbest questions he'd ever been asked. 

_“Yes. Order – order helps you deal with things.”_ He bit at his bottom lip. “Although I think my dealing with things on my own have come to an end.” 

“If you don't want to talk about this Dean, we don't have to.” He had a look of concern on your face.

“No. No I think I better.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “When your kid sics your own parents on you, you know it's time to fess up.”

“I'd say you've got one brave daughter, Dean. Most kids wouldn't do something like that.” 

“She's had to grow up a little quicker than other kids. I think what caught me off guard was that I didn't see it coming when I should have.” He leaned back against the couch. “And that's why I'm here. Because I'm her only parent and I can't fall apart on her.” He gave the man a rueful smile. “Her mother would come back from the dead and kill me if I did. If my mom didn't do it first.”

The man rested his head against his hand, his eyes looking rather amused. “Do you think your mom would do that?”

“Doc, I have not been in the custody of my biological father in almost twenty-eight years.” He felt his smile fade. “And she _still_ wants to break his jaw.”


End file.
